


From You, Flowers Grow

by HereToFinish



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Coffee, Death, F/M, Fluff, Grieving, Loss, ShuMako Week 2020, Shumako week, Unrequited Love, shumako
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:22:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22330024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HereToFinish/pseuds/HereToFinish
Summary: It took Makoto one year to realize she was in love with her best friend, and it took ten years for her to tell him. All she needed was a cup of coffee, and suddenly she knew where her heart belonged.
Relationships: Amamiya Ren/Niijima Makoto, Kurusu Akira/Niijima Makoto, Niijima Makoto/Persona 5 Protagonist
Comments: 12
Kudos: 68





	From You, Flowers Grow

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from the lyrics to the song, "Patricia," by Florence and the Machine, which a friend introduced to me a long time ago.
> 
> Written for Day 5 of Shumako Week, exploring the theme "Coffee."
> 
> \-----
> 
> *Thank you to Zizanzelf for catching a few typos for me!

Coffee hasn’t tasted the same ever since Ren left Cafe Leblanc. For Makoto, it was a change that never turned into habit; a fact of life she never learned in the ten years since her high school graduation.

Sitting there now, in a nondescript coffee shop that she happened upon on break, she pondered the untouched mug cradled in her hands. Its aroma was okay enough - vaguely smelling of roasted coffee beans mixed into a nutty blend. Given the chance, she was sure that it would taste infinitely better than the generic instant coffee she would haphazardly make in the mornings. Besides, taste was hardly a factor. What was she there for other than to get another caffeinated kick to plow through the rest of the day?

“Thank you for your patronage,” the barista muttered behind her in his rounds of tidying and greeting. He left a receipt for one coffee and one croissant on her table. The small sleek piece of paper glided down to a glossy, multicolored flyer that lay neglected on the corner of Makoto’s table.

The flyer was one __she__ had brought in. It had lain there unread for nearly half an hour now, staring at her with those loud, garrulous colors. She had found it addressed with a small letter in her mailbox the previous evening, and she couldn’t quite get herself to part with it. From her own kitchen counter, to her oak wood office at the headquarters, the piece of vellum sat in its flattened state and dogged the remainder of her shift. Though she hadn’t actually __read__ the flyer yet, all it took was a slight glance at the minimalist stamp from one Yusuke Kitagawa to know its contents without having read at all.

“Ah, an art show?” the hovering barista chimed.

He was a young, perhaps college-aged man; the type to get interested into those sorts of things. Makoto didn’t quite invite the conversation, and normally baristas could read people well enough to know when a customer needed unsolicited attention, but he found a pretense all the same. Though her coffee was untouched, the small plate of croissant was not. The young man hurriedly cleaned up after the crumbs and emptied plate before wiping a swath of the table with a dampened cloth.

“Oh!” she mouthed in muted surprised, “Why, um, yes… My friend is an artist, and he has an exhibit in town.”

“Wait, your friend is Yusuke Kitagawa?!” he exclaimed, eyes-wide with shock as he took a closer look at the flyer. “ _ _The__ Yusuke Kitagawa?!”

It was then that perks of convention and failsafe habits kicked in. Makoto quickly drew the previously untouched coffee mug to her lips, nodding as she took a flustered sip against the barista’s unbridled enthusiasm.

The coffee didn’t taste half bad, but it wasn’t like Leblanc’s brew either. There was a growing acceptance of futility on her part once she laid the mug back down, letting the ceramic clink against her teaspoon with a clumsy sort of grace.

“That’s __really__ cool, miss!” he said, a little too boyishly.

There was an awkward moment in between - an impasse where the barista stood there for a second too long as he stared admiringly at the flyer. He had a grin that spanned the width of his face, and Makoto couldn’t help but recede further into herself as discomfort loomed over the table.

True enough, Yusuke had reached the artistic heights many of the former Phantom Thieves had expected. After the group had dispersed and lost touch in those earlier years, Makoto always found that both Yusuke and Ann were the easiest to keep track of - making headlines in quite different cultural circles as they toured the country with their bustling careers. And it wasn’t like galas and exhibitions in Shibuya were few and far in-between for the master-artist. Makoto had been invited to quite a few of them every other year, and every other time she had always been held back by a pressing excuse.

Careers were always difficult in the beginning, and by the time those endless hours of toil and stress had softened to the humdrum of complacency, it was already too late. The last time Makoto spoke to Yusuke was five years before, when, as a fledgling cadet, she had been tasked with security detail over one of his galas. Ann was the sole exception. Modeling and acting anchored her firmly within the Tokyo metropolitan area, and she had always made the time (despite her busy schedule) to have a monthly crepe date with the former strategist. As for the other Phantom Thieves? Well-...

“Anyway,” the barista interrupted once more, cutting through her reverie with an uncomfortable chuckle, “that’s really cool. I hope you get to see the master himself.”

The barista bowed politely before quickly flitting to the other taciturn customers scattered throughout the cafe.

Makoto, meanwhile, pushed the mug further away. The sound of the ceramic cutting through the worn grooves of the table grated her ears, but the discomfort didn’t last long. She hurriedly rose from her seat, gathering strewn belongings as she checked her wristwatch with a distracted sort of look. And in her absentminded haste, Makoto left behind the glossy flyer, where it shone in the dark with brilliantly colored letters.

__“‘Phantom Hearts’_ _

__Yusuke Kitagawa_ _

__Art Exhibition_ _

__Works in oil and acrylic_ _

__Multimedia”_ _

Though the paper was mostly in black, a sharp and bold red bled through the darker tones. The faint trace of a mask and a tophat could be seen, engulfed in a fiery outline of white and blue. It was not as cartoonish as the logo Makoto once remembered, but the years were kind to Yusuke’s craft. It was still recognizable, and by the time Makoto ran out of the cafe and reached the end of the block, she had already carried in her heart the faint temptation of comparisons. What she remembered and what she saw might have been two different things, but she hoped that evening would fill the gaps in between. Perhaps her friends would be there, like the drawing of that phantom thief on the flyer - recognizably familiar and refreshingly different.

* * *

_It was a small hovel; a restaurant tucked away in a busy corner. They often went there after school._

_Like most ramen stands, the place smelled of broth, and steam seemed to forever drift in their midst. Yet for all the noise and all the smoke, she was happy._

_They had been laughing for what seemed like hours, but the hours flew by all the same. Lost in their unintentionally sweet nothings, leaning in closer made it worth their while._

_“I don’t know why I’m saying any of this,” she said as the laughter dwindled down to a sad smile. “I haven’t talked about any of this… since…” Makoto stopped. Suddenly, the good times and mirth they so willingly reveled in faded with the clamor of rush hour._

_"I haven't talked about my dad like this with anyone," she said, her voice waning with the onset of realization. She bit down on her lip, unable to go on._

_And he knew, somehow, that as easy as it was to laugh about pleasant memories, it was just as easy to cry over them._

_“Sometimes, I don’t know-...” Her words were a murmur softer than the waning din around them. “I don’t know… It’s been years, and I-”_

_The temptation to hold back a cry was strong, but she instead shifted in her seat. And he drew back in his. A gap wedged itself so suddenly between them._

_“Sometimes,” she repeated, this time breathing in with an audible sniffle. Her eyes closed to fill that gap; to calm the tears fighting so hard to get out. “I think about the memories I could have made… if he was there, you know?” And though she tacked on a smile, putting on a brave face for her friend, the tremor in her voice was always a telltale sign, and sometimes sniffles could be stubborn. “Memories I could still make, if he was alive and well -... and-”_

_Makoto stopped herself. She averted her gaze, turning to her empty bowl of ramen as she feigned a sensible composure._

_“There are so many things I wanted to say to my dad… so many things I wanted to do with him, and I just-...” Her voice cracked with a bitter laugh - the kind that interrupted a stifled sob; the kind that wanted to deny the irrational grip of emotions over one’s heart. “I don’t know what to do about them now. They’re just here and-”_

_“I’ll take it,” he said, interrupting her with a soft smile._

_“What?” she laughed, puzzled by the constant twist and turns of their conversation._

_“I’ll take it,” he repeated adamantly. “Give it to me - things you want to say; things you want to do. Give them to me, and I’ll help you make memories you want to make…”_

_Makoto stared back at him dumbly. Even through her faintly remembered grief, she managed to raise her brow questioningly._

_“I’m serious!” Ren insisted. “You’re right… You gotta make new memories, and I’ll be there-”_

_At first, Makoto said nothing. She seemed to smile incredulously, all the while struck to a disbelieving silence at his somewhat ill-founded humor. Ren, ever attuned to her way of thinking, quickly shifted gears. Leaning in, he lowered his tone._

_"I'm serious," he repeated, softer this time. "All the things you wanted to do... all the ... plans," he paused to laugh, unsure of what word would be appropriate, "you have built up for your dad, it has to go somewhere. I'll help you," he offered, slyly turning away in shyness once he became cognizant of how intimate his offer had become. "I'll make more memories with you."_

* * *

Makoto stared back at the mirror with a wan sort of smile. She practiced and posed, grazing her fingers against the edge of her jaw to test the shadow and lighting on her features. Though she had never been one to fuss __too__ much over makeup, the occasion warranted at least __some__ careful attention to her self-presentation.

At the age of twenty-nine, she was thankful that years of overtime and stress hadn’t creased the smooth features of her remaining youth. A single “laugh line,” as they say, formed a subtle groove over her cheek, but it was a singular line - one faint flaw in the otherwise unperturbed curves of her face. Perhaps she didn’t age as well as Sae, whose high-stress career agreed with her solemnly unmarred beauty, but Makoto never aimed for anything as high as __that__ \- if she aimed for anything at all. It was only one night: the night of Yusuke’s exhibition; and there were friends she hadn’t seen. Surely, they would study the sorrows and joys that only unmitigated years could bring upon her. For Makoto’s part, her one wish was to remain unchanged, if only for a night.

“Hey, you done yet?”

The bathroom door swung open, momentarily letting in the din and clamor of the gala’s ambient noise. Makoto turned with a start, spotting Ann’s svelte figure as she glided to her best friend’s side.

“There are __so__ many boring people out there, and I haven’t seen __anyone.__ Not even Ryuji!”

The flurry of the supermodel’s complaints came with a barrage of fussing and fiddling as Ann parked in front of the vanity adjacent to Makoto.

The art museum’s restrooms were lavishly marbled, and the lighting basked them in a warm golden glow, but there was something impersonal in how her words echoed in its vastness. Makoto, who tried to hide her embarrassment as she hurriedly hid her hands from her face, did her best (while failing) to appear nonchalant to her friend.

“How about you?” Ann asked, leaning towards the mirror as she popped a lipstick out of her clutch handbag.

Makoto peered at her friend, studying the loose tresses of her golden hair as they fell effortlessly around the frame of her neck. Ann always took good care of her hair, even as it was coiffed together in a messy yet elegant bun.

“Me?” Makoto said sheepishly, surprised and somewhat taken aback by the sound of her own voice.

“Yeah!” Ann had no problem, it seemed, speaking and reapplying her makeup at once. Years of practice lent a deftness to her hands as she outlined her lips with the tint of dark rouge. “Seen any old friends yet?”

The question was innocent enough, and the tone of Ann’s voice was even casual in its unmeaning delivery. But Makoto knew her friend better. Glancing along the sides of her mirror, she spotted the hint of a crooked smile that tugged at the corner of Ann’s lips and the brief telltale dart of her blue eyes as she averted her gaze.

Makoto knew __which__ friend, in particular, she was asking about, but there was little sense in humoring what must have been ten years’ worth of Ann’s baseless and fanciful speculation. When Makoto ran into Yusuke by the entrance earlier, he made no mention of Ren, much less commented on the presence of the other former Phantom Thieves. Married as she was to callous facts, there was no logical basis for hoping, and Makoto had long ago snuffed out the foolish impulse of hoping.

“No,” she answered readily. “Not that I know of.”

Makoto bounced the ends of her hair, slightly longer than the cropped style she normally wore. Turning her face this way and that, she saw no blemish, nor was there a strand of hair out of place. Her nervous check-up was complete, and now she saw little to no reason for staying.

“I think I’ll go back out there and see more of Yusuke’s pieces,” she said, adopting an unusually formal tone as she turned to Ann. “Do you want me to wait for you?”

Ann placed the lipstick back in her bag, puckering her lips in examination of its renewed fullness. “Fine,” Ann mockingly whined, all the while veiling a hint of mischief in her eyes. “Just don’t get lost.” She waited for Makoto turn, catching her with a wink as the other’s hand fell gently on the knob of the door. “I’d hate to come to your rescue.”

To that, Makoto could only smirk, masking the trail of laughter, “I don’t think __I’m__ the one who needs rescuing.”

The two girls laughed, softly smiling to each other as the close of the door effectively separated them. The sanctuary that the ladies’ washroom offered had disappeared with Ann, engulfing Makoto back into the jaws of endless courgettes and cocktail commentary. Makoto drifted among the crowds. She did her best to mingle with the more enlightened crowds of museum-goers, blending in with polite nods as she drowned out dull conversations on the merits of performance art or the pitfalls of streaming services against the glory of cinema.

* * *

_It was almost a cliche, how they ended up together that night. Makoto - the ever dutiful chaperone - only meant to check in on the boys for all the rough-housing she knew Ryuji was capable of. Yet in a classic case of missing keys and broken door locks, the two were well out of their luck. Ryuji had already snuck somewhere else with Ann - no doubt enjoying the scenic escapes of Hawaii - and it wasn’t like the other chaperones were doing night rounds and knocking on doors to come to Makoto’s rescue. Stuck as they were in the dingy hotel room, they couldn’t help but wait in sullen compliance for help to arrive. By the time the clock hit 2 am, Makoto gave up and tried her best to sleep. Ren, ever the gentleman, offered to take the floor._

_Sure enough, the awkwardness of friendship prevented anything more than an uncomfortable silence. Makoto lay stiff like a board on the bed, and Ren did his best to not swallow the air in his throat so audibly. The ceiling became an intense space for their concentration, and for a while the two did their best to pretend to be asleep, hoping that the cover of dark was enough for a necessary illusion._

_“What are you thinking?” she asked in a mousy whisper._

_Ren didn’t say anything at first. He was unsure whether or not to keep up appearances._

_“I know you’re awake.”_

_“Oh, well-...”_

_He thought a lot of things._

_“Nothing,” he answered._

_“Oh.”_

_For a while, the two thought conversation would end there._

_“What are_ you _thinking?” he asked, turning the tables more out of politeness than any desire to interrogate his senpai._

_“Nothing,” she answered a little too quickly._

_Above them, lights from the window played like shadows on the ceiling. Makoto watched avidly as the shapes twisted and turned, tangled with the dark._

_“I can’t sleep,” she admitted out of the blue. Although, she didn’t quite know why she felt the need for any sort of admission._

_“I know,” he said._

_Makoto swallowed the uncomfortable wad of air in her throat._

_“Can I ask you something?”_

_“Sure.”_

_“Don’t laugh,” she said more sternly than before._

_“... Okay?” Contrary to what she asked, Ren was about to laugh. Her timidity and somewhat childish behavior was endearing, to be sure, but funny all the same._

_Makoto took another moment to inhale, mustering what courage what she needed._

_“Do you think Ann is… cute?”_

_Ren rose from where he lay on the floor._

_“What?” He did his best to play it off cool, feigning a profound ignorance on the subject of Ann and her popularity with boys._

_She heard him move, but the pressing need for honesty made her immovable._

_“It’s just… we saw her in her bikini today, and well, um... I couldn’t help but think-... maybe you think-... Ann is… you know…”_

_“...No?" he said, a little too emphatically. Color rose to his cheeks, wondering if she was asking what he thought she was asking. "I don’t know...”_

_“Well, um... sometimes I wonder if she’s the type of girl that guys would-... that you would-...”_

_Makoto bit her lip. If the lights were on, Ren would see that she too donned a rouge-tinted line on her cheeks. But for now, Makoto would have to settle for coping, rather miserably, with the warm glow of her ears._

_“What?” Ren asked, unsure where her question was going. His eyes blinked furiously in the dark._

_“N-nevermind!” she squealed. Her palms pressed against her eyes in a last-ditch effort to disappear now that she had successfully humiliated herself._

_“Makoto?” He was less interested in the topic at hand, actually, than he was concerned that he might have done something - anything - wrong._

_“Sorry, please forget I said anything.”_

_“Well you_ have _to tell me now.” Again, despite his best efforts, Ren found himself at the brink of another laughing outburst._

_“What?! Why?!” On the bed, Makoto drew the sheets up to her nose, absolutely mortified._

_To that, Ren could only hold out for so long. He finally let out a chortle._

_“‘Cause now I’m curious.”_

_Normally Ren wasn’t one to laugh at his own jokes, but he couldn’t help the slight smirk on his face when he heard her bounce on the bed furiously. Without even looking, he could tell - from the mish mash of pillows and maelstrom of sheets - that Makoto had just buried herself beneath the covers._

_“I’m serious Makoto,” he kept on going. “You have to tell me.”_

_“I absolutely do not,” she quickly retorted._

_“Friends have_ _to_ _tell each other secrets,” he provoked._

_Makoto took the bait. She shot up from the bed, flinging the covers back once more. “They absolutely do not!”_

_Her frustrations reached a fever pitch, and Ren, hugging his stomach, no longer felt the need to hold back a hearty laugh or two._

_“What’s so funny?” she asked, as mousy as when the conversation began._

_“It’s nothing,” he quickly answered. Though, once the laughter faded with the moonlight, Ren let out a tired sigh. He leaned back on the floor, arms folded behind his head for support. For a while the two said nothing, lying in their respective places while painfully aware of the push and pull of their distance. It was bad enough that neither of them could sleep, and it was made worse by their inability to endure such a pregnant silence._

_“Hey Makoto?” Ren asked, his voice rising to a tremulous tenor._

_“Y-yes?”_

_“Can I ask you something too?”_

_Makoto bit down on her lip and contemplated the weight of his question._

_“No tricks. I promise!” he reassured her._

_“O-okay.” Her heart started to settle back to its usual pace, and once more she felt herself trusting in him the way she did when she first asked her mousy question._

_Ren turned his head, facing away from the bed to let his eyes fall on the faint outlines of the hotel room wallpaper._

_“If you could change one thing in the world - it could be anything - what would it be?”_

_Proverbial crickets filled the gap between his question and her answer. Makoto kept her eyes fixed at a nonexistent point in the ceiling, focusing on the slow rise and fall of her chest._

_“Anything?” she asked._

_“Anything.”_

_“I guess it would be… my figure? It’s so hard to maintain, and-...”_

_Ren almost stood up flabbergasted._

_“Wait, really?!”_

_“What?” she asked defensively. “You said anything!”_

_“Anything in the_ world _, Makoto.”_

_It took her a few seconds to get it, as it often did. For all her academic brilliance, Makoto didn’t always have the wherewithal to rise above her insecurities. The realization filled her with an unbearable dread and embarrassment. His own enjoyment of her mishaps were only adding further insult to injury. Discontented, she burrowed back into her fort of pillows and blankets._

_“Oh! … Oh no… I thought-”_

_Ren’s laughter punctuated her stammering._

_“Apparently curing incurable diseases or ending world hunger weren’t even on the table,” he teased, laughing once more to himself._

_“Stop it!” she whined, reddening from his endless barrage of attacks. “I … misheard the question!”_

_“Sure you did,” he said, almost snorting to himself._

_He let Makoto simmer for a few minutes more, hiding within the shadows of her embarrassment as Ren waited out the next lull to their conversation._

_“For what it’s worth,” he said suddenly, lowering his voice to a whisper, “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with your body.”_

_“R-really?” Her head slowly rose from the edge of the covers._

_“Yeah!” Ren crossed his ankles as he sprawled his limbs along the span of the carpeted floor. But not even the air of confidence in his tone could mask the infectious warmth spreading to his own cheeks. For the first time that night, Ren felt his heart quicken to a senseless thrashing. “I think you look good, so you shouldn’t worry too much about it.”_

_“O-oh,” Makoto said bewildered. “I um-... thank you.”_

_“You’re welcome.”_

_Again, conversation ebbed to another uneventful lull. The two basked in their rather strange sense of discomfort - a mix of warmth softening the tension in their limbs and a hint of embarrassment at their newfound honesty._

_“Ren?” she whispered._

_“Yeah?”_

_“What would you change?”_

_“Me?”_

_“Yes.”_

_Ren looked back to the ceiling. His eyes fluttered with the growing sense of dark surrounding them._

_“I guess I would-... make it so people who died before their time, didn’t.”_

_Makoto felt her breath quicken at the answer. She rolled over to her side, facing Ren all the while letting her eyes grope about the dark for the outlines of his face._

_“It’s funny,” he continued. “Since coming to Tokyo, I’ve met a lot of people who’ve lost someone, or who were about to lose someone.”_

_Makoto closed her eyes, listening to the words in remembrance of the last time they went to the ramen stand together._

_“If I could change something, it would be the past, so no one would have to hurt anymore.”_

* * *

“Coffee?”

Makoto had never seen such a seamless blend of performance and food service. She had found herself in a part of the gala aptly (and mysteriously) labeled “Coffee,” where multimedia pieces of art littered the room centering around the warm caffeinated beverage. As part of the exhibition, the catering staff went around serving shot glasses of espresso. Makoto found herself loitering closer to a work of oil, its canvas spanning the expanse of white wall before her.

The piece was more abstract than she would have liked. It was a blend of colors from a strange palette of brown, black, white, and gold. Some anthropomorphic figures appeared and faded in the tableau like parts of an optical illusion, but nevertheless, a warmth emanated from the strokes that boldly declared itself under the name “Leblanc.” Despite its illegibility, Makoto could sense from it something familiar - a melange of colors she found soothing and reviving. Her red eyes fell in the loop of the paint’s endless sheen, tracing the lines until they could form into the cafe she so fondly remembered.

“Ma’am?”

The server’s voice shook her out of her reverie. Makoto hadn’t realized that she had ignored them for so long.

They gave a bow, offering the cocktail tray as it smelled so deliciously of a blend that __almost__ smelled like the one she would always get at Leblanc.

“N-no thank you,” she answered with a demure smile.

The server bowed again politely, content to move on and offer their services to other museum-goers.

Makoto had to hand it to Yusuke. He __knew__ how to replicate what it was like to be in Leblanc without - well, __being__ in Leblanc. Even __if__ she was surrounded by strangers, pretentious critics, and self-absorbed art connoisseurs; even __if__ the museum itself was much too large and dismal to fully capture the warm aromatic glow of sitting by the counter where Boss had prepared his brew… Somehow, __that__ part of the exhibition gave her a slice of it, and suddenly Yongen-jaya no longer seemed so far away in the grand scheme of things.

“I never knew you were one to turn down coffee.”

The soft fall of his steps almost drowned out his words, echoing loudly against the din of the crowd surrounding them.

Makoto turned with a start. Her hand flew to her chest as if to still its fluttered beating.

Had it already been ten years? Ten years seemed too much and too little all at once. By the time Makoto glanced at the young man who approached, she was hard pressed to find the same boy who brazenly rose to the occasion so many years ago.

 _ _“I’ve always loved you!”__ he once declared (though allegedly as a joke) in their one shared year at Shujin together. Back then, she was as startled as the crowds were, stunned into a speechless shock in the face of his unsmiling courage. He had come to her rescue then. Did she need any rescuing now?

The question presented itself with a choice: to face or not to face him. By the time he sidled up closer, standing to face the self-same art piece titled “Leblanc,” Makoto was vaguely aware of the proximity of his shoulder to hers. Her awareness of it prompted her to inch away with a barely-concealed shudder. Makoto didn’t dare look at him; she didn’t dare lay eyes on him lest __he__ catch a glimpse of how much __she__ has changed.

“I don’t drink much coffee anymore,” she hurriedly answered, pressing her palms flat against her sides as embarrassment stiffened her posture.

“Oh really? That’s a shame.”

Awkwardness could make the bravest of hearts falter, and it unfailingly did so at that moment. Ren - after ten years of being absent from her life - had so casually (and literally) walked back into it with barely a murmur. Makoto could do nothing in the meantime but stare and run through the possible things she could say in her head. The words played like a vicious loop, but nothing would come of it save some uncomfortable shifting and hastily repressed coughs.

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” he said smiling, although his gray eyes never left the art piece they both studied so intensively.

“It has,” she agreed. “You look well,” she added after she realized that Ren was burdened with maintaining much of the conversation’s momentum.

To that Ren could only laugh, shyly running his hand over his head to reveal that, in his mid-twenties, a receding hairline encroached the bramble of his dark hair. Makoto peered over him and noticed that - in addition to his taller stature, something leaner had flattened the outlines of his face. Ren had a more gaunt jaw, and dark circles showed how youth was slowly fading for the once charismatic leader of the Phantom Thieves. Yet that sort of thing became a young man like him. It wisened him in unmerited ways. Neither did it hurt that his long nose smoothed out the wrinkles of stress and lent him a maturity that was nevertheless captivating.

Inwardly, Makoto wondered if he would learn to appreciate the differences in her, as she was so busy doing for him when she allowed herself the escape of pleasant conversation.

“So, Yusuke invited you-...”

“Of course,” he answered, raising the flyer in his hand. “Couldn’t miss an exhibition subtly titled, “Phantom Hearts.’”

To that Makoto laughed softly to herself, lowering her eyes so they fell on the pointed tip of her shoes. It was __so__ like Ren to allude to such a fraught secret without a care or worry. The cavalier smile on his face betrayed a wry gleam in his eyes, and for a second, Makoto couldn’t help but suppress the instinct to chastise him for such a blatant disregard for his safety.

“So,” he picked up when another awkward silence fell on them, “you don’t like coffee anymore?”

Again, Makoto had to stifle a loud guffaw. Why was he so fixated on this?

“No,” she shook her head with a chuckle, “not really.”

“Any reason why?”

It was then that Ren made a move to walk away from the art piece. It was a slow sort of shift - the kind that signalled to anyone who was vaguely aware that their capacity to stare at one painting had been exhausted. It was time to move on to the next.

“Over time, I think I just realized I didn’t have the taste for it,” she answered with unrelenting candor.

Makoto moved too. She tailed his glacially deliberate steps until the two hovered near another oversized canvas that hung reverently on plaster.

“Oh?” Ren asked, emphatically surprised at her response. “So that entire time when I made you coffee at Leblanc-”

“That’s not what I meant,” she hurriedly interjected.

“What __did__ you mean?”

The conversation seemed to have jogged a little too quickly into the realm of the personal. In need of a distraction, Makoto sauntered closer to a nearby sculpture made of copper and wood. The shape was amorphous - to say the least - but it had its own points of attraction, where the eyes couldn’t help but fixate in an unabashed desire to learn more.

Standing on the other side of the piece, Ren ambled back to Makoto. His gaze - unexpectedly somber - softened to her wandering figure, watching as she circled aimlessly around the sculpture.

“This piece is called ‘Mother,’” Makoto spoke, more to herself than to her old friend. Her hand shot up from her side, fingers sprawling to touch. Yet her outstretched hand paused, stopping short of grazing her skin against the coarse edges of the sculpture’s copper outlines. Art pieces were not to be touched. That was a universal rule in any gala, and for a moment, Makoto felt herself float away with a fanciful, hypnotic daydream that everything and anything within the exhibit was just another piece of home waiting to be recollected.

“It’s beautiful,” Ren joined in, though his eyes never left her.

“I wonder,” Makoto murmured, “does Leblanc still have ‘Sayuri’?” She paused her circling in time to stop in front of Ren, whose taller and lankier figure seemed to tower over her and the sculpture in question. For the first time since they met that evening, Makoto saw Ren flinch - albeit for a mere instant. Yet the mask returned as quickly as it vanished, and his face hardened to an expressionlessness that snuffed out whatever wounds the question had reopened.

“I wouldn’t know,” he answered with a matter-of-fact tone.

Whatever intimacy they shared in appreciating the sculpture dispersed with the bored crowds of museum goers. Ren made a move for the next piece in the exhibit, quickening his pace despite Makoto’s own hurried protests.

* * *

_It was raining on the last day they saw each other._

_The two stood, shoulder to shoulder. Ren wasn’t holding the umbrella, but Makoto made sure to hold it for him._

_“I should’ve been there.”_

_Despite her efforts, some rain water trickled down the uncouth bramble of his hair. Ren’s eyes were dried and reddened with tears he didn’t cry, and his posture was unbearably straight._

_Makoto wanted nothing more than to hold him._

_“It’s not your fault,” she insisted, leaning closer with the umbrella in an effort to shield him from the elements. “You couldn’t have done anything.”_

_“He asked me to come back, you know,” he continued, ignoring her pleas as his eyes steeled over the framed photo hanging over the grave. Rivulets of rain streamed down, like a flood, against the hapless glass that filmed over the photo. “He said he wanted me to run the place once I’m done with college… to help out this summer so I could-”_

_“Ren…”_

_Makoto held out her hand, laying it softly on his shoulder._

_“There was nothing you could have done.”_

_“I could’ve been there!” he snapped, starting away from Makoto as he shuddered against her touch._

_The two stood in shock. Ren had never yelled like that before._

_And though the rain did its best to drown out the noise, Makoto still felt the weight of his voice reverberating through her ears._

_“Boss needed me,” he said in a calmer yet withdrawn tone. “And I wasn’t there.”_

_“Ren!” she cried out._

_But it was too late._

_He didn’t want to hear it anymore. He didn’t want to frighten her._

_Ren stormed off, leaving Makoto alone with the umbrella._

* * *

The two found themselves in front of a humbler-sized portrait.

Canvas with oil. The label underneath it read, “Sakura.”

Out of all the pieces, Makoto thought, this one was the easiest to recognize.

The painting was a simple portrait of Sojiro Sakura. The lines were familiar - down to the details of his thinning hair, pointed beard, and loosely tied apron. To any passerby, it would have been simple portrait of an aging man doing his best to look grave for a picture. But not even the hard lines of his grimace could hide the telltale signs of a smirk. Neither could the smug fold of his elbows, pressed against his center, mask the warmth just bubbling beneath a flimsily cold exterior. The colors were as realistic as it could be, save for the choice strokes of red and gold that imbued both foreground and background with a sunlight inexplicably absent from the gallery around them.

“I wonder if Futaba has seen this yet,” Makoto pondered aloud.

Her weight shifted from one foot to the other, idling in front of the picture as if she had been a customer at a coffee shop - just waiting for her turn to order.

“Probably,” Ren answered tersely. He dug his hands into his pockets, casually feigning aloofness as his eyes halfheartedly studied the portrait.

“I’m surprised…” Makoto turned to her old friend, peering at him with a wistful sort of look as she sidestepped closer. “Realism isn’t really Yusuke’s style.”

Her attentive eyes stayed glued to the suddenly taciturn man next to her - anxious that the small talk would fall on deaf ears. True enough, she was doing her best to sound like the visitors she had met through the evening - art critics and dilettantes who trafficked in idioms and buzzwords because they could. But whatever tidbits of art history knowledge she had wasn’t wasted on any sort of patronizing circle jerk. She was talking to Ren, after all, and for the moment he took her blithe comment with something of a contemplative huff.

He straightened his posture, as if her observation had jolted him awake. He then pinched his chin with a ponderous stroke of his hand, folding his arms against his chest in blissfully aware mimicry of the man in question..

“Yeah,” he said, managing a smile, but the small victory was - to Makoto’s dismay - somewhat fleeting. The smile gave way to a pout as Ren averted his gaze and threw his head back.

Despite the years, Makoto was somewhat relieved to find that his tells hadn’t exactly disappeared. Ren was playing cool while failing to mask whatever simmered underneath it all. He threw his head back casually, motioning elsewhere without mustering the courage to make the first move.

“You know,” Makoto started up again, not wanting to give up, “I still visit Leblanc from time to time.”

 _ _That__ caught Ren’s attention. He paused his fidgeting, glancing at the former Phantom Thief strategist with renewed alarm.

“I haven’t gone in, of course. I don’t think I’m quite ready yet, but-...” Makoto finally broke her gaze from the painting. Her red eyes fell on his, struggling to find the silver lining in the dimmed grayness of his pupils. “But, sometimes I go by the street. I’ve even gone as close as the corner alley next to it, but going inside is…” She paused to take in a heavy sigh, hugging herself from the sudden chill that drifted through the gallery. “Going inside seems out of the question. I’m afraid I’ll open the door and-”

“Don’t,” he interrupted.

Perhaps courage wasn’t what he needed. At that moment, he felt nothing more than the gnawing, tightening hold of his chest. Like a kettle heated beyond boiling pot, Ren thought he was going to explode.

“You don’t need to do this,” he said as calmly as he could.

By then, Ren already turned to walk away. He was hoping for a fond reunion with Makoto. He expected nostalgia. He was even anticipating some sort of reminiscing. But some wounds were better left untouched, and the subject of Sojiro’s untimely death was one of them. For some, treatment stung far worse than letting it fester.

“Ren, wait!”

It wasn’t her voice that stopped him. It was a hand. Lithe, gentle, and warm to the touch. Her hand wrapped around his palm with a hold frail enough for him to break through, but firm enough to tempt him stay. Just a little longer…

* * *

_Makoto chased him back down to the church next to the cemetery. It was a Christian Church - the same one where Sojiro took Ren and Futaba for Wakaba’s death anniversary. She hadn’t exactly visited these sorts of places, except for the one in Kanda. But that experience alone was sufficient. She knew he had a habit of loitering in those confessional booths. It was an eccentricity of Ren’s that boggled most people but her._

_‘I think I understand,’ she recalled telling him the year before. ‘This place feels quiet. Almost peaceful…”_

_On the day of Sojiro’s burial, Makoto knew peace was what Ren needed the most. She hurried along to the vacant booth next to Ren’s - the spot typically reserved for the priest. But on that stormy night, the priest had already gone. Most of the guests for the burial service had left to retire and reminisce in the comfort of their own homes. It was only the two who were left to fend for themselves against the encroachment of memories and things they’d rather leave unsaid._

_“I don’t know why I’m here,” Ren spoke the moment he heard Makoto close the door to her booth. “I’ve never really done one of these ‘confession’ things before.”_

_“Really? That’s surprising,” she whispered in response, afraid that their transgression would be overheard._

_“Why’s that?”_

_“You always go to sit in these booths,” she said, forcing a soft laughter to brighten their cramped and dreary surroundings._

_The two sat, relishing in the silence of their separation all the while taking comfort in the other’s proximity, just on the other side of the partition._

_“You’re supposed to confess wrongdoings here, right?” Makoto started up. It wasn’t that the silence had become unbearable, but there was a lingering fear (especially since she couldn’t see him) that Ren would somehow magically disappear. That, if she took one step and lifted the cover of the partition, she would find that he was never there, and she was left all alone in the darkness of a strange and solitary church._

_Ren chuckled. “Something like that.”_

_“Well? Shall I start?”_

_Ren nodded with a wave of his hand. He knew Makoto couldn’t see him, much less sense his mannerisms in his own isolated booth. But there was something comforting in going through the motions - the sort of gestures and habits that would always play out simply because she was there._

_“When I was eight years old,” Makoto began, taking a deep breath, “I stole candy from the dentist’s office.”_

_“... What?!”_

_“It’s true,” she continued, pinching her eyes shut in shame. “After a teeth cleaning, I asked my dad if I could have one of the mints from the receptionist’s desk. He said it wasn’t a good idea, but I didn’t listen so I-...”_

_“So you stole it?!” he finished for her, not bothering to hide the incredulity in his tone._

_Makoto’s hands clutched the hem of her black skirt. “...Yes.”_

_Ren did his best to stifle his laughter, clicking his tongue in feigned disapproval. “Irredeemable.”_

_“I know! I’m sorry!”_

_“Don’t apologize to me,” he cut in. “I wasn’t the victim in this robbery.”_

_“I know!” she repeated, shamefully flattening her palms against her face._

_“You should apologize to the dentist. How could their business survive without that single mint!”_

_Normally, Ren’s teasing elicited a sincerely panicked response from Makoto, who was often beguiled into a flustered if not embarrassed state because of his tomfoolery. But that day was different. She allowed herself a trail of laughter, smiling once the excitement of performance had fizzled back into the somber air that plagued them beforehand._

_After a few coughs here and there, Makoto straightened her skirt once more, sitting up in her booth so she could reach out through the closed screen._

_“That’s not all,” she said softly. “I’ve also lied.”_

_Ren would have joked. The temptation to tease her for such a mundane and very human habit was so strong, but he resisted it nonetheless. Instead, he leaned in closer to the screen, waiting for what must have been the most harmless lie Makoto ever told._

_“For the past year, I’ve been lying to a friend.” Her words were small, but the tone of her voice was firm. Ren could almost picture Makoto sitting upright, clenching her fists from sheer determination. “I’ve been lying to myself too, actually,” she continued._

_“How so?” Ren didn’t mean to play the role of priest. It wasn’t exactly part of the day’s rather somber itinerary, but curiosity got the best of him._

_“All this time, I’ve been telling myself that my feelings don’t mean anything.” Makoto stopped to take another much-needed breath. She closed her eyes, absorbing her thoughts in the friendly cover of shadow. “That I don’t have these feelings, but I do.”_

_Ren didn’t know what to say. He leaned forward on his legs, weaving his hands together as he waited anxiously for her confession._

_“I lied to my friend, and I told him that I would always be his friend.”_

_The screen between them was still closed, but Makoto nevertheless stared into it, hoping that on the other side, his gray eyes would meet hers should courage ever let her open it._

_“But that’s not true.”_

_“You don’t want to be his friend?”_

_“Yes… and no,” she shook her head, smiling. “The truth is, I don’t think I can ever be just his friend.”_

_For a moment, Makoto heard nothing - less than nothing - from the other side of the screen. The senseless thrashing of her heart was all that drummed in her ears._

_“The truth is,” she tried again, “I’m in love with him… I love him. I think I always have.”_

_Makoto thought she was going to die. Her heart palpitated, swinging against her ribcage with relentless force. Her skin started to pale, anxious with anticipation for a single word - any word - to come through the screen._

_“Do you plan on telling him?” Ren finally asked after a few moments of unbearable silence._

_“When I come out of this booth,” Makoto replied, finding it in herself to calm the storm within her heart, “I plan on telling him the truth.”_

* * *

“Ren, wait!” She grabbed hold of his hand, deathly afraid of his letting go. “It’s been almost ten years. You can’t keep blaming yourself for what happened!”

Around them, a deafening hush fell over the gallery. Bystanders and museum-goers alike circled around the two, watching the scene with harsh murmurs of disapproval.

Ren, mildly aware of the scene he had caused, looked around in a subdued state of panic. He let his hand cling to Makoto’s almost as a reflex - clinging to what he knew in a moment of indecision.

“It’s not that,” he whispered, apologetically turning back to Makoto. He had an explanation ready. Or, more accurately, some sort of speech about the revelations, inspired by simply being around her, would have undoubtedly caused. But, he had to remember they were Yusuke’s art exhibit, after all. The two friends had no right to cause a spectacle, potentially ruining a precious evening for an equally dear friend.

They were caught at an impasse - stuck in a public space where a decade’s worth of private feelings were readily spilling out. Ren’s eyes flitted about for a proper solution, and when none readily presented himself, he settled instead for the distraction of the gallery itself. After a breath or two, Ren calmed himself into a more relaxed posture, drawing closer to Makoto as he spoke softly, “Let’s finish out this gallery. There’s some stuff we haven’t seen.”

Confusion briefly lit across Makoto’s face, only for her to immediately snuff it out at a moment’s notice. Like the former strategist Ren knew, Makoto was always quick and attuned to his instincts - incomprehensible as they sometimes were. Without another word, the two calmly proceeded to the next section of the exhibit, rounding out Sojiro’s portrait to arrive at the more “performance” centered pieces of the collection. And through all that time and feigned aloofness, Makoto and Ren had circled through the gallery with minimal consciousness that their fingers remained locked in each other’s grip.

Unbeknownst to the would-be couple, they gravitated (almost without thinking) towards one of the centerpieces in the exhibit: a kitchenette complete with jars of roasted coffee beans, espresso machine, and drip decanter. A spotlight with a wan, yellow light hovered over the display, mimicking the lighting that anyone could find in a quaint, familiar coffee shop.

A small round table stood in front of the display, bearing a small card with writing.

“Sometimes home is a warm cup of coffee,” it read.

Makoto didn’t know if that was the title or the description.

“Hm,” Ren said to himself, “didn’t think this would ever make an exhibition about the Phantom Thieves.”

“The title __is__ ‘Phantom Hearts,’” Makoto interjected. “It could be about anything.” She wasn’t really arguing. It was a mere habit to fill out the drudgery of silence they had occupied ever since their little outburst. And though her loose interpretation of the exhibit gave him some food for thought, neither of them really gave it much significance beyond further appreciation for the miniature cafe that stood before them.

“You said you haven’t had coffee in a while, right?” Ren spoke after a while.

Makoto raised a suspicious brow at what his question insinuated.

“Well, why not have one now?”

Ren didn’t really wait for her answer. He simply walked off, approaching the display as if he had walked into Leblanc - apron in tow - and ready to serve customers.

“It’s been a while,” he said, almost as if to himself, as he grabbed the mugs provided by the museum. His movements were effortless, if not completely natural, as he casually lifted one of the jars and began the process of grinding the beans. Meanwhile, Makoto stood by, mouth agape in muted shock. Other museum-goers caught sight of the understated and bizarrely impromptu performance happening before them. It didn’t take long for their eyes to remain fixed as if in a trance. If Ren was anything, he was a damn good barista, and he had a way of turning what would have been dull and menial tasks into something like a craft. __‘Artisanal__ ’ was the word Yusuke used, as Makoto recalled.

“You should help me,” he said, looking over his shoulder to address her.

“Wh-what?!” she asked in a disbelieving high-pitched whine. “But I’ve __never__ made a cup of coffee with you.” __And there are people watching__ , she wanted to add. But those words never made it out of her panicked mind.

“There’s a first for everything, right?” he retorted, winking in a way that made it impossible for her to refuse.

Makoto was confused. More than that, she was absolutely stunned. She hadn’t seen Ren in so long, and their first hour together had already been filled with so many ups-and-downs. Now he wanted to make __coffee__?! In a __museum__?!

“You just gonna stand there?”

She didn’t quite know why, but something about the provocation was difficult to resist. Makoto looked around, eyeing the crowd that had gathered to watch them. Making coffee was perhaps the most routine, if not mundane, task. That they were to ‘perform’ it, so to speak, under a spotlight and before an audience almost sent Makoto reeling. Her mind seemed to drift from one episode to the next, unaware of where exactly these unforeseen events would lead her.

But that was Ren too, wasn’t he? A force to be reckoned with, sweeping her along the drudgery of life from one exciting thing to the next (however un-exciting it would be without him).

Egged on by the watchful eyes and spiraling thoughts, Makoto finally nodded. Reaching out her hand to come help him - however helpless she actually was when it came to making coffee.

“What’re you in the mood for?” he asked, debonair in how casual he was being.

“Make me a latté,” she blithely answered.

“You never drink lattés,” he protested.

“How do you know that? You haven’t seen me all this time.”

 _ _Touché__ , he wanted to say, but Ren wasn’t about to argue against the former Queen. Instead, he donned a brazen sort of smile, delightfully surprised all the while impressed with how domineering she could be (if she wanted to be). He did as she commanded, handing her the soy milk provided for them as he readied the steaming wand.

Despite Makoto’s earlier protests, the two managed to fall into a rhythm that was quite seamless, if not thoroughly efficient. In no time, Makoto got the milk to froth at the right temperature, and Ren was able to brew two shots of espresso with a dexterity and precision that brought out a strong, inviting aroma. By the time Makoto prepared the mug, Ren was about to pour the milk into the caramel-like surface of the coffee. The steamed milk foamed at the top, fanning into something like a heart shape as the drink filled to the brim of the ceramic.

“This must be what they mean by performance art,” Makoto said, mostly to herself, as she drew the mug to her lips.

“Really?” Ren was sincerely confused. “I thought that’s when they dance, do theater… and other stuff.”

Makoto almost laughed at his rather uncharacteristic bout of ineloquence. “No, Ren. That’s __performing__ arts.”

To that, the impromptu barista could only throw his head back in muted laughter. “I’m not really an art person anyway.”

She smiled, eyes never leaving his as she raised her cup to her lips. The latté washed over her tongue with soothing and refreshing warmth. A bit of the foam stung her tongue, as she drank it a little too hot. But the taste was sweet, and the pleasure of having coffee made just for her - albeit in steamed milk form - was enough to wash the bitterness of all those wasted years away.

By the time Makoto finished her drink, she lowered the mug and cradled it in her hands. Its heat still coaxed her skin with a softness she hadn’t felt in so long. And the spotlight, which was at first intimidating and somewhat nerve-racking, now appeared to bathe Ren in a warm, golden glow as her red eyes peered up at his taller figure. Even the dark and tousled tresses of his hair shone like the sun in their illusively cozy setting.

“How do you like it?” he asked, the tenor of his voice falling like lilting waves as his eyes steadied listlessly over hers.

“I love it,” she answered, mesmerized by the simplicity of such an admission.

“If you want,” he continued, biting his lip from the onset of sudden nerves, “I can keep making this for you. Any coffee you want, actually, for as long as you like. You don’t have to stop drinking coffee just because Sojiro’s gone.”

The question stunned Makoto, who merely stood in dumbfounded silence. She used the cover of seconds to raise the mug over to her face, concealing her flushed cheeks as she rummaged through her scattered brain for an acceptable answer. Meanwhile, Ren swallowed the wad of air in his throat, betraying the weight of his question as he averted his gaze and tried to focus on something else.

Embarrassed, Ren decided to move away and quickly tidy up. There were other museum-goers, after all. Who were they to monopolize the display?

But __his__ silence only made things worse, for Makoto began to panic inwardly that a lack of a response automatically entailed rejection. Desperate to salvage the situation, she quickly lifted her chin to resume conversation, daring a brave look over her mug.

“Ren?” Makoto asked mousily. Her eyes lowered to the near-empty mug, pouting with a sullenness that softened the intensity of her red eyes. “I… um… I never did confess to my friend, all those years ago… did I?”

The allusion to a long lost memory almost startled Ren. His eyes shot up, forgetting the task he was mindlessly doing of tidying the station. “No,” he answered somewhat stupefied. “You just walked away from that confession booth… you said you had to go.”

To that, Makoto could only laugh. The memory of her foolishness was almost too much for her to handle. But who was she to discount the terrors of being a teenager in love? Or an __adult__ in love? Her heart nearly crumpled at the thought.

Suddenly cognizant of the nerves that once plagued her, Makoto brought the mug closer to her chest, tightening her grip as her cheeks reddened with faltering resolve.

Seeing her there, with her confidence quickly rise and fall until it waned with the blush in her cheeks, Ren couldn’t help but smile. Less out of mischief and more because her found her habits so endearing, he figured that Makoto had already ‘done him a solid,’ so to speak, by confessing in the most convoluted of ways in his time of mourning and loss. Now, too much had been lost for him to leave it up once more to chance. If Makoto wasn’t willing to face her fears, head on, then he would help her do it.

“Makoto?” Ren asked, his eyes still staring at the used dishes with a hint of melancholy.

“Y-yes?”

“I didn’t confess either,” he said, running a tired hand along his hair. “Back then, I mean. I never did my part too.” His hand grabbed for the counter, doing his best to steady himself against the turmoil brewing within. “The truth is, I lied to my friend too.”

“O-oh?” Her red eyes beamed with a curiosity that made her heart flutter, slightly from excitement and slightly from the possibility of jealousy. __Who__ exactly was the friend that Ren wanted to confess to? Ren had befriended __many__ girls in his time as a Phantom Thief. It would be foolish of her to presume some special place in his heart as a beloved confidant when __all__ of them could have been his beloved confidant. Makoto looked up at him, eyes wide with guarded surprise. “How so?”

“I never told her. And never telling is as bad as lying, right?” Ren tacked on a smile, like a mischievous boy using his wily charm to get out of a scolding or two.

Makoto chuckled to herself. “I’m not sure about that.”

“Well, either way I kept the truth from her,” he spoke, lending a tinge of sorrow to his speech as he turned towards her. His eyes hovered over the mug that still sat in her hands. Makoto couldn’t help but notice that his lashes - sensuously long as they fanned over his eyelids - fluttered to a close in the midst of his words. “The thing is, I was in love with her too. I’ve always loved her. I don’t think I can ever stop loving her.”

“Ren…”

For some reason, saying his name was more natural than anything she could have said. Now that they were older, she was much too wise to confuse his words for anything other than what it was; to trick herself out of the truth that had blinded her all along. For once, she was hearing the confession she always wanted to hear. It took her all not to drop the mug, not to let the ceramic shatter into a million pieces on the floor.

Thankfully, Ren knew her all too well. For he saw the flicker of hesitation in her eyes and the telltale fidgeting of her fingers as her hand loosened its grip on her mug. Ren shot a hand out to her, cupping her fingers before she could betray the fragile mug to an untimely end.

“All these years,” he continued, as if nothing had gone awry in the silent drama before them (around them, crowds of people were starting to whisper, watching with intent eyes at the scene they never expected). “All these years, I wanted to tell you.”

Makoto’s vision blurred with the blinding spotlight above them. Why were her cheeks so warm? Why were her eyes stinging with burning tears as it streamed down her face with the flood of joy, panic, and sorrow? Confused, bewildered, and most of all in denial, Makoto shook her head violently. “Ren, don’t.”

“I love you,” he stubbornly refused her request.

Both their hands wrapped around the coffee mug. Makoto’s was shaking. Ren was doing his best to steady hers.

“And if you’ll have me, I’d love to make coffee for you, for the rest of your life - if you will.”

By then, it no longer mattered that a few “awwws” and rather loud murmurs were building up around them. A crowd had practically formed, confusing the declaration for the performance of high art. Either way, Makoto no longer cared. She let go of the mug, and Ren followed suit.

By the time it struck the marble floor, shattering into a million pieces that echoed sharply in the museum’s vast halls, Makoto reached up on the tip of her toes, throwing her arms around Ren’s neck for a kiss.

Much to Ren’s surprise, her mouth tasted like coffee - the best of its kind.

“I love you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> I've been dealing with a lot of life changes lately. I've lost some friends, family, and some good memories along the way. This long (and somehow hurried) piece is a contemplation and celebration of said memories, which may have been fond and happy at the time but are bitter to think about now. Either way, I am grateful for having had them, and I hope anyone who has read this can feel the love I have for those who shared in those memories.
> 
> Some parts are directly inspired by the show Fleabag and the novel "House of Mirth" by Edith Wharton.


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